Broken
by Looking-for-Mister-Wright
Summary: What if Edgeworth snapped at Franziska for the way she acts? Anger, sadness, regret, and self-blame abound. This is my most recent work, but the first one I'd like to post. One-shot.


Her smooth, blue hair waves in whispers around her normally sophisticated expression, tinged this day with confusion, even sadness, and lined with her difficult questions. She grippes the coercion tool that sits on her desk in hands delicate and powerful. Her hazel eyes, always hard and angry, are soft and contemplative, staring down at her invisible bonds, her locks and chains, her handcuffs. This is all highly unusual for her; she is perfect.

Or so she has tried to convince herself.

Stricken down by her little brother with words unintended to lead to their consequences, she sits in her office like a baby bird, battered, simply because a cat wanted a plaything. And, when she stopped moving from pain, the beast grew bored and stalked away. Still, though gone, the furred opponent left its mark; she still felt his sharp claws stuck in her side, his great teeth clamped about her trembling, ruffled frame as he tossed her aside, discarded. The red suit, the angled grey hair, the cups of tea and sharp smirks had reminded her of the presence of a rival, a mere sibling squabble, but they have now become synonymous with villainy and frustration, caused by devilish intent.

She cannot not see him for his true intentions, focusing so on what she needed most: validation. Why did his words sting the way they did? Why does she feel like prey in the paws of a predator? Well, it must be because he had _wanted_ to hurt her, sting her, make her submissive.

Really, he had wanted to shatter her irrational expectations of perfection, reveal her insane obsessions and insane obsession with pleasing a man long gone before her eyes. He cared for her. He was her brother, albeit not by blood. He wanted her to grow and move past her coping mechanisms.

Still, how could one not feel as prey when cornered, stripped of defense, and forced to have one's deepest insecurities laid out, plain as day, sharp as knives, from the single person one most fears to hear them? Family? A loved one?

"Franziska," he'd begun after her breakdown in the prosecutor's lobby when she lost a case she'd worked so hard to win. It was a case to which her ties were undeniably strong and taut. "You are so childish, and you have this idea in your head that perfection means hiding behind a mask of abrasiveness and obnoxiousness." His stern words crashed into an already tear-stained face. "A whip will only force people to believe your lies for so long. Stop fooling yourself, Franziska Von Karma. You aren't perfect." In a rare moment of his, he took her shoulders and shook her. He pried her whip from her hands and held it away from her. "Tell me, sister, tell me that you are complete and perfect without this tool."

She just stared at him, silently, shaking, allowing the salty drops of anger and frustration to fall from her face. She bowed her head.

"You silence betrays your recognition that I speak the truth."

He dropped her whip rather forcefully onto the cold floor. It made a clang as it fell that echoed through the silent room long after he had departed. It was a sound that made her feel as though she'd been socked in the stomach. She flinched, gasped for air, but made no move to lift the thing. All she could do was stare at it the way she did now, as if it was holding her binds in place, tying her to her persona.

He was right, but she can't stand by and accept that he was right without recompense, some payment for his actions. She can't see their value, only their venom. So, she resolves to corner him in his most vulnerable moment. She checks the calendar.

Tomorrow will be the day.

He sits at the piano, recalling his actions the day prior. There is no escaping them, but he does not care. He is used to pushing things down below the surface and trying to forget. So, he puts weight into the chord at which he had been resting and begins to play his favorite song, his _father's_ favorite song. He closes his eyes as he silently wishes Gregory a happy birthday and, for the fifteenth year, offers once more his melody to his knight in shining armor. Silent tears roll down his cheeks and carry his regrets to the forefront of his mind. Out from the keys float the sound of his sorrow and love for his departed father, along with the blame he feels, still, after all these years.

He feels tender, raw, exposed, but there is no one there, and so he allows his pretentious shell to fall away and reveal the human he is underneath. Little does he know, his younger sister stands behind him, watching gleefully behind him as she awaits the moment to pounce. Then, in the middle of his song, she shoves him forward, and he uses his hands to steady himself from the unexpected blow, causing discordant sounds to erupt from the instrument. He whips around to find her, grinning. Before he can manage a word, however, she begins speaking.

"Miles Edgeworth, I seem to have caught you doing something illogical." She grins wider, if it's possible. It's unnatural for her, unnerving to him. "He's gone, Miles Edgeworth, and you need to get over it." Her words are laced with venom.

"If you are trying to compensate for yesterday, I-"

"Guess what?" she interrupts. "Not only is he gone, but it's your fault. You didn't shoot him, sure, but you went to the case, you sat through the whole thing, and you were tired." She makes a mock frown. "Poor little Miles, tired after court. We'd better not take the _stairs_ ," she hisses the last word, returning to her sick smirk.

He shakes his head. "Th-that won't work on me, Franziska," he says, voice trembling, "I'm not so tied up in blame as you think."

"Oh, really? Now, why don't I believe you?" She brings her face close to his. "You admired him, adored him, didn't you? You still do. Anything you did to make him upset or harm him made your stomach _churn_."

"It really wasn't my fault," he says, trying to remain firm in his argument, though by arguing, he falls right into her trap. He can't see it in front of him, as he blinded as he is by his own swirling sadness.

"That's not even the tip of the iceberg, brother. You may have had a small part in the grand scene of your father's death, but you sure have harmed him."

"Wh-what?"

She laughs. "You became a prosecutor under the tutelage of the very man who shot him in the heart. Haven't you done the same to his legacy? Shot it to pieces? Can you imagine if your son was best friends with your killer, and then followed the path like a sheep that he tried so hard to steer you from?"

His eyes dim, and his head drops as he glances about the palms of his hands. "But he didn't know. I didn't know..."

"Does it matter?" She asks, feeling him snap.

He swiftly leaps to his feet and bellows, "Get out! Get out of my house!"

She narrows her eyes at him and does not move. He stands, breathing hard, and stares daggers at her. So they stand for a long time. Finally, not breaking her expression, she walks to the door. With the click open and the click shut, he drops back to the bench behind him and slowly turns around to face the piano. He lifts his hands above the keys, but drops them at his sides once more with a sigh.

"I apologize, Father."

And they are broken.


End file.
